Heavy in Your Arms
by Knune
Summary: Their relationship can never be normal, but they have each other and normal is overrated anyway. Claire/Wesker. Companion pieces to Running Up That Hill.
1. Draw the Line in the Horizon

**_Heavy in Your Arms_**

_A/N: So, these fics/drabbles are companion pieces to my Claire/Wesker fic, Running Up That Hill. I wrote them some time ago and finally decided to post them here. I do want to point out that there is a lack of continutity in all of these pieces. There's an overlying storyline, sort of, I just never filled in all of the details. I guess. But they all fit into the RUTH universe. _

_Also, I'd like to say that this series, including the original fic and these companion pieces, are heavily AU. I have taken huge creative liberties for the sake of story with this series. This particular piece is based on the idea that Wesker injects himself with the Progenitor virus well before the events of the first Resident Evil game and is slowly, very slowly, affected by several symptoms of the virus prior to his "death". This was written as a fill for an 'eating disorder' prompt on my angst bingo card, although I don't think it has any potential triggers or anything and doesn't really deal with any sort of typical eating disorders, just one brought on by a self-inflicted virus. Also, this spans the early parts of Claire and Wesker's relationship._

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><p>(<em>Draw the Line in the Horizon<em>)

Claire's not usually lost for words. She always has a comment, a snarky comeback lingering in the back of her mind, ready to rapid fire at will. Her mind spins faster than the tires on her bike and she's never without a topic of conversation, an anecdote.

But right now, she can't think of one thing to say, the engine has stalled. She wraps her fingers tightly around the menu in front of her and stares at the entrees. There are pictures of some of the items off to the right of the plastic menu and she grimaces, has to refrain from slapping her hand across her eyes.

She had wanted to come here, didn't even think about it when he asked where she wanted to eat. She blurted it out, a grin gracing her lips. This is where she eats dinner with Chris, where her parents used to take her on her birthday when she was a kid. This was the only place on her mind and it was a huge mistake.

Albert Wesker doesn't seem like the kind of man who orders off a menu with pictures on it. He seems far too sophisticated for that kind of thing. Claire wonders what he sees in her anyway. She's a picture menu, he's a fancy one page, plain font kind of guy.

They're here though and it's too late to back out. She agreed to have dinner with him, picked the place out and now here they are. And Claire has nothing to say.

Wesker saves her, breaking the silence filled with harsh breathing and the faint music of Simon and Garfunkel floating in the background. "Are you ready to order?"

He's dressed very sharply, wearing khaki pants and a blue and white striped shirt. He looks like he stepped out of a GQ catalog. She's wearing jeans, worn in at the knees, faded in the thighs, and a Harley t-shirt that used to be black but faded to gray from repeated washings. She walked in carrying her pink backpack on her shoulder and every eye in the place was on her. They were wondering what she was doing with him. She wonders the same thing.

She dares to glance up, her fingers tacky against the plastic in her hands. Her face feels hot and she can't even imagine what she looks like at the moment. Flushed and sweaty, probably. Claire manages a nod and wonders when her brain is going to catch up with this date.

The waitress shows up a moment later and Wesker gestures at Claire. "Cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake," Claire mumbles and she's sure she's so hot right now she's about to catch on fire. What is this man doing with her?

He doesn't order off the menu, doesn't even glance at the pictures to decide what he wants. He orders grilled chicken with a side of vegetables and sends the waitress on her way.

The menus gone, Claire folds her hands together and looks past Wesker, at the door, at anything to keep her occupied. There's an old man walking in through the door, his younger second (maybe third) wife on his arm. They look happy.

Wesker hand covers Claire's and she jumps, jerks her hand back so hard she slams her elbow into the side of her chair. "Shit," she whispers, shaking her head, once again avoiding his eyes. Any minute now he's going to realize this was a mistake. He's going to get up, walk out and forget the day he tried to romance Chris Redfield's little sister.

Wesker reaches out and takes her hand again, drags it into the middle of the table. "You seem nervous." His hands are large, warm, and Claire wants to get lost in them.

"No. Just..." She's not sure how to say it so she comes right out and says it, blurts it out because that's what she does best. "If Chris finds out, he'll kill us."

He nods, his thumb rubbing against her knuckles and a small shiver runs down her spine, right into her thighs, like a bucket of ice water has been thrown on top of her head. "Yes, I imagine he wouldn't be thrilled."

"You are his boss. This is just a lot to take in." She stares at their hands, the way hers look so small compared to his, the way his short, neatly trimmed nails dig gently into her skin.

"We'll make it work," Wesker promises and it's all Claire really need to hear. There must be something he sees in her, something she hasn't noticed in herself yet. If it's enough for him, it's enough for her. And they'll make it work.

Claire's mind begins to spin again and she doesn't shut up for the rest of the evening. She eats her cheeseburger, licks ketchup off the palm of her hand and dips her french fries in her milkshake. She watches as he eats his chicken and vegetables and doesn't leave a crumb behind.

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><p>Claire might be sitting down but she's still pulling at her dress, trying to cover up as much thigh as possible. She almost wants to wrap herself up in the tablecloth and walk out wearing a makeshift toga. This is a bit too much. "This place is really nice."<p>

It really is. This is the most expensive hotel in the city (and she only knows because the front desk clerk said so) and it looks it. It's nice and elegant and everything Claire is not. She hasn't worn a dress in years but here she is, wearing some low cut black dress, showing too much skin and far too much cleavage.

The waiter had been staring at her earlier and Claire blushed so hard, she was sure her face matched the color of her hair. He stopped after a moment or two and she's sure Wesker had everything to do with it.

Wesker looks pleased though so she stops pulling at the fabric and focuses on the steak sitting in front of her. "And the food is really amazing. You're missing out."

He's eating a salad with light dressing and if Claire didn't know better, she'd think he's a chick on a diet. "I'm happy with what ordered," he remarks, his eyes on her chest and he's probably thinking about how fast they can make it up to the room.

Claire rolls her eyes and pushes her plate toward him. "Take a bite. It's really good." She isn't much of a cook (she can boil a mean pot of water though) and can't tell what it is about the meat that makes it taste so good. It's spice or seasoning or the way it was cooked. It's something and in the end, she doesn't care about any of that stuff as long as it ends up in her stomach.

"No, I am fine with what I have," Wesker replies and ignores her offering, his fork piercing a cherry tomato that looks depressing and unholy next to her slab of beef.

Shrugging, Claire pulls her plate back to her side of the table. "Your loss." She stabs another piece of steak and chews it slowly, closing her eyes because it's like nothing she's ever tasted before. She's not used to opulence, to ordering food and not being asked if she wants a side of fries with that, but she could get used to this side of things pretty quickly.

Wesker's foot brushes against her leg and she stops chewing, the beef laying dormant on her tongue. "It's not the food I am interested in anyway," he says to her and Claire asks the waiter for a box in record time.

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><p>Claire is not a heavy girl by any stretch of the imagination. She weighs exactly what she should, according to the body mass index and some doctor she saw on an episode of Oprah. She exercises when she can, which is honestly not very often, and tries to limit the amount of times she eats at McDonald's, which is twice a week if she's lucky. She's a thin, perfectly normal girl.<p>

And maybe she has a high metabolism, which is why she can scarf down fried foods like they're going out of style. She just wasn't raised eating vegetables and anything green really. She eats her weight in grease and still has the body of a model out of one of those lingerie catalogs. She's completely sure it'll catch up with her one day though.

Until then she's going to eat what she wants and right now she wants peanut butter chocolate pie. She waits eagerly by the door for room service, wrapped up in nothing but a robe. "Don't you want anything else?"

Wesker had hesitated at ordering anything and at Claire's insistence, he had settled on a small bowl of soup. If he eats it, it'll be the most she's seen him eat in a long time. "What I ordered will suffice," he responds, sitting across the table from her. His hands are folded together and his hard expression gives nothing away. She never knows what he's thinking anymore.

Claire tears her eyes away from the door (because staring will not make the food come any faster) and looks at him, her head cocked to the side as she tries to figure him out and once again fails miserably."How about we share my pie?"

His expression does not change, his eyebrows don't twitch, his mouth doesn't tighten. He remains closed off and Claire bets he's one hell of a poker player. "I will eat what I have ordered."

She nods and goes back to staring at the door. Claire knows better than to argue with him and when her pie comes, she doesn't try to offer him a bite. He really is missing out though.

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><p>The bar is mostly empty at this time of night. There are a few drunks lingering in the corners, slamming down as many drinks as possible before last call. There's a couple in the corner, nursing a bottle of beer and a glass of wine, hardly touched. They're too busy necking to notice the drinks in front of them.<p>

Then there's Claire, sitting at the bar, with Wesker at her side. She's drinking a glass of chardonnay (and longs for an ice cold beer) and working her way through her second basket of complimentary peanuts. Small beads of salt stick to her saliva slicked fingers as she digs into the basket.

"These are pretty good," she comments, popping a peanut into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. These are definitely better than what she normally gets at a bar and these probably aren't contaminated with everything under the sun. The bar is as classy as the rest of the hotel. So are the peanuts.

Wesker has his fingers wrapped around a tumbler of bourbon. He hasn't taken a sip. The ice melts into the alcohol and it's nothing but a waste of money. "I'm glad you are enjoying your snack."

Claire holds her palm out to him, a lone peanut resting in the middle of her hand. "Have one," she whispers like a prayer. Just one damn peanut and maybe Claire wouldn't feel the slide of the scales tipping. She's sure they're tipping in his favor and she just keeps her eyes squeezed closed and holds on for the ride.

He's wearing sunglasses, at night, indoors. It's the first time she's seen him wearing sunglasses when it wasn't bright and sunny, the middle of a sun-drenched day. The bar is anything but bright but she can't bring herself to ask why.

The drunks are staring at him but he doesn't seem to notice or care. "I don't want one."

She pops the nut into her mouth and grinds it into her molars. "I thought you would say that." She really shouldn't have bothered asking.

"We should retire to the room. It is getting late." Wesker throws some money down on the bar and stands, his chair scraping unnaturally loud against the marble flooring. The drunks follow his movements with their slow, unfocused eyes. The couple comes up for air. The bartender takes the hundred he slapped down and doesn't make any change.

Wesker walks out without so much as a glance at her. Claire is just expected to follow. She slams down his watered down bourbon and trails after him, hating the feeling of eyes burrowing into her back.

* * *

><p>They're sitting at opposite ends of the table, separated by a large expanse of dark oak. Claire's sitting closest to the door, her legs tucked up into her chair, her shins pressed hard against the edge of the table. She'll have red, angry marks on her skin for a few hours but she can't bring herself to move or care at the moment.<p>

At the other end of the table, Wesker is sitting calmly, his feet planted firmly on the floor, hands clasped in front of him. He looks professional, like he's sitting in a meeting not in a hotel room with his secret girlfriend. "Are you going to eat that?" His eyes look like blood but there's something gentle in there, something Claire can't quite put her finger on.

"I don't know," she answers honestly. There's a hamburger sitting in front of her and it's gone cold. She picks at the bun with her fingers, tearing bits of bread apart with her nails. Her eyes are red too, bloodshot, but hers look nothing like his.

He rests his palms flat on the table, his hands splayed out next to his forgotten sunglasses. There is no food in front of him, not even a glass of water. "You need to eat. It will keep your strength up."

Claire almost laughs. What an absurd statement. She eats all the time but never quite feels the way she used to when she was younger. Maybe her metabolism is catching up with her. Maybe the joy she once found in food is no longer there.

"Do you want a bite?" Claire already knows the answer, but asks anyway. She wants him to say yes, for his eyes to fade back to a color she can't even remember anymore. She's making a wish that will never come true.

"No, thank you." Wesker is polite to a fault and she knows that somewhere beneath the increasing leather and black clothing, there is something uncivilized and vile. But there's also a heart, a little burnt around the edges but it has her name written all over it. If he opens up her chest, she knows he'd find the same thing.

"Okay," Claire says and accepts it.


	2. Stand There and Watch Me Burn

**_Stand There and Watch Me Burn_**

A/N: So this part (and everything else posted in this series from now on) takes place after the original fic, _Running Up That Hill_. When I wrote this, about a year ago, I wasn't too happy with it but the more I look at it, the more I realize that it's okay and it gets the point across that I want to convey. And I suppose that's all that matters!

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><p>The room is silent, save for the quiet rush of water beating down against some awful shade of brown tile in the background. The day has just begun (even though the sun is yawning and the sky is turning in for the night) and Claire's fingers are twitching by her side.<p>

She leans against the bathroom door, her head resting against the wooden frame as she watches Wesker through bright and nervous eyes. Her fingers drum softly against her thigh but even the slightest movement is enough to catch attention.

Under a stream of lukewarm water (never hot), Wesker turns his head toward Claire, his red eyes distorted through the thick glass door. "You seem distracted." His hands are moving over his chest, a bar of soap lost somewhere in his large digits.

Claire stills her fingers, curling them into the hem of the short dress she has on. This one is red, strapless and has a long slit running up her thigh. She feels even more ridiculous than normal in this thing and drew too much attention walking through the lobby. Anonymity is everything here and she might as well have walked in with a large neon sign above her head screaming at people to look at her.

Still, Wesker bought this particular dress for her (she figures it's from some place fancy in Europe that she wouldn't be allowed to step foot in) so she smiles and and hopes nobody can see her underwear. "Well, you're giving me quite the show."

Wesker pushes the shower door open, the sound of the falling water drowning out his unspoken invitation. Claire isn't one to let an opportunity go by and almost sighs in relief as she pulls the dress over her head. She wants to throw the red frock on the floor, find a lighter and set it on fire. She hasn't done enough squats this month to wear this thing. Instead, she hangs it up on the back of the bathroom door and toes off her painful heels.

The water is tepid when she steps under the stream and pulls the glass shut behind her. Her hands immediately attach themselves to her arms, rubbing away the sudden goosebumps, and she shivers as she tries to find some warmth between the glass and tile.

Wesker reaches out and takes her hand, placing it against the temperature control handle. He's a cold statue behind her, his chest pressed up against her back. She remembers, just barely, what it was like to have him radiate heat, to sear her skin and brand his fingerprints into her bones. He used to keep her warm in the winter but now keeps her cool in the summer.

"Thanks," she says, closing her eyes as the now hot water runs down over her shoulders, the ends of her auburn hair dampening the curl out. She leans back, resting her head against a broad pectoral muscle.

Wesker's wet hands settle at Claire's neck, his thumb resting against her pulse. She should pull away, stiffen, but she's beyond that, hasn't thought about pulling away in years. She only sighs softly and wonders if his heart is beating in time with hers.

The hands disappear for a second but return and begin to massage at her shoulders, some sort of lavender scented gel filling the air. "Is everything alright?"

It's a simple enough question and yet Claire wants to laugh at the irony. Nothing will never be all right. Her lips tug into a small smile that only the tile can see and she nods, wet hair sliding against his chest. "Yeah. I'm good."

He seems satisfied enough with the answer and even if he suspects differently, he lets the subject drop. He just moves his hands to her chest, his thumb resting in the platinum ring dangling against her breast.

Claire reaches up and slides her hand against his, finding his ring finger amongst the pounding water and the metal chain. "You ever wish it was real?" She holds her breath waiting for his reply.

Wesker keeps still behind her, his body an ice block smothering her flames. "I don't wish for things."

Claire breathes out, rubbing her fingers against his, wondering what it would be like to see a faint tan line on his fair skin. "Everyone wishes for things. I wished for a pony when I was six."

Wesker dips his head into the curve of her shoulder, and kisses her neck, same spot as before. His mouth muffled by naked flesh. "And did you get a horse?"

Claire feels her heart begin to beat just a bit faster as Wesker's lips brush against her skin. He's a splash of cold water against her neck, trying to smother her flames but she's incinerating, a pile of ashes ready to wash away down the drain. "Of course not. We lived on the sixth floor of a shit apartment building."

His chest rises and falls evenly against her spine and she wonders if his heart has sped up as well, if they match in the wild pulsation beneath the skin. His free hand finds his way to her abdomen, settles against her pubic bone. "It was a fruitless venture then."

She lifts his hand to her mouth, kissing the skin where she's seen the matching metal reside once, maybe twice in all this time. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You're just avoiding the question, you know."

"Dear heart," he says it like it's a sin, the smallest wisp of breath ghosting against her body, "don't dwell on things you can't control. You don't know what the future holds."

Claire's eyes fly open as Wesker's free hand skims further down her body, a strong thick finger dipping inside her. She gasps quietly, her nails digging into the palm of the hand she has trapped against her lips. She tries to keep her mind clear even as he sets a jerky rhythm below.

There's a question itching at the end of her tongue, some probing in depth question about what Wesker thinks their future holds. It's a question that would take Claire one step closer to being one of those girls, the ones who use scary words like commitment and doodle their boyfriend's name on the inside of their notebooks. Claire moved past notebooks years ago and knows her commitment dangles from her neck. It doesn't stop her from wondering though, from wanting to push the envelope.

The question luckily dies on her tongue as she feels Wesker hard against the small of her back, a second finger joining the first inside her. The only coherent thought Claire really has at the moment is that Wesker is damn clever when it comes to the art of distraction.

Wesker's teeth skim gently against her neck, the sharp edges of enamel shooting sparks along her spine and she feels like a fourth of July firecracker waiting to burst into the night sky. He knows how to wind her up, push her buttons perfectly to unravel her seams and leave her a boneless pile of skin on the floor.

Her legs shake against her will, a unconscious tremor running up her calves, through her thighs and straight into her groin. She reaches back to find solid ground before she falls and instead finds his jaw, the sharp sting of stubble meeting her delicate touch.

Wesker turns her in his arms, presses his clean, cold hands against her face. His eyes feel as hot on her skin as the water does but she holds his gaze, wonders if his vision is tinted and if she looks like fire personified.

His eyes, red as the dress Claire begrudgingly wore earlier, have a look about them that she just can't place. She thinks they look almost regretful for a second, if she has to put a word to it. But he blinks and the look is gone if it was ever really there in the first place. It probably was a trick of the light. Wesker's never been sorry for anything.

"What," she starts and then stops because the bubble they've created is so thin now that words can tear it apart, shred it from the inside out and Claire doesn't want to lose this. She isn't quite ready to let go. Not just yet. She needs a few more minutes.

Instead, she talks to him in the only way she knows how. She leans forward, wrapping her arms around his thick neck, and kisses him softly, almost the barest brush of lips against lips. She says a million things with her mouth and nothing at all.

Wesker lifts her up, holding her up in his arms, her back pressed against the unfortunate brown tiles. He slides into her and she sighs softly, the weight of the past month finally lifted from her shoulders.

There's a thought that picks at Claire's mind, even at times like these when she can't form coherent thoughts and her bones feel like nothing more than a gelatinous mold. It wiggles into the ridges of her brain and no matter how breathless she is, how on the edge, how tight her legs wrap around Wesker's waist, she can't keep it from emerging to the forefront of her thoughts.

She wonders if this is worth selling her soul for, that feeling of weightlessness, of hot coals running down her spine and into her toes. The sleepless nights, the sneaking around, the way her heart feels heavier and darker than it ever has before.

And as Wesker's hand sneaks up her chest to rest against her breastbone, one finger wrapped in the metal chain, his palm flat against her heart, she knows that it is. It's worth everything.

* * *

><p>Claire's fingers are twitching again, the slightest movement of bone tapping against the wooden tabletop. Not even the heat of the shower was able to calm her nerves. She's been thinking about this for a while, months maybe. Today she's pulling the trigger because it just seems like it's time.<p>

"Do you need medical attention?" Wesker asks out of the blue and Claire laughs, her fingers coming to a forced rest. He's sitting across from her, his magnum in pieces in front of him on the table.

It's startlingly domestic, the two of them, sitting at the dinner table like they aren't enemies, aren't anything more than boyfriend and girlfriend (and hell if those two words really describe anything about their relationship). They aren't eating dinner, just cleaning guns and that's the difference between them and every other couple in this hotel.

"No," Claire responds, her fingers running across the disassembled barrel of his gun. It's tacky, sticky to the touch and she pulls away, grease staining her fingertips. "Why?"

Wesker's fingers are covered in black leather and he looks like a professional, dangerous and criminal. His ever present sunglasses have been abandoned to the bathroom counter and he's every bit a man Claire should not be sitting with, while only clad in a terry cloth robe. "You lack the ability to sit still today."

"I'm not a statue. I can't sit completely still," she counters, her gaze settling on the disassembled gun in front of her. There are flecks of red on the metal and she can't help but wonder whose blood it is.

He runs a rag over the cylinder chambers, the bitter smell of gun oil floating in the air. "I did not say you were, dear heart." His eyes are trained on his weapon, the careful precision of cleaning the gun seemingly more important than the conversation at hand but Claire can feel his gaze on her, studying her movements when he thinks she's not paying attention.

"I brought you something," she tells him softly, her hands falling into her lap. She can feel the hilt of her knife beneath her robe, strapped to her thigh like a constant reminder that something isn't right here.

Wesker's hands still against the gun, the rag pressed tightly against the freshly cleaned metal. "That's not necessary."

Claire stands, her thighs quivering as the robe falls gently against her skin. She's not sure if that's leftover from earlier or if she's just that nervous about this. "A gift isn't supposed to be necessary. You should know that." Her voice wavers a bit and she sounds like a teenage girl, scared and stupid about the world.

Her pink backpack is sitting in the corner, positioned upright and wedged against the wall. It's the brightest thing in the room and one of the only things that reminds her of home. She has clothes stuffed into it, wrinkled and forgotten at the bottom of the pack. She wonders if Wesker is going to comment on her disheveled look in the morning.

Wesker begins to reassemble the gun, sliding the pieces together within a matter of seconds. He moves like lightning and in a blink, the gun is clean and back together, shining like a black diamond in the dim light."I don't need anything, Claire. You shouldn't waste your money on me."

"Albert," Claire says, picking up the pack and taking it to the table, "shut up." She laughs, a sound that fills up the room and bounces off the walls, extracting a white box from her backpack.

She sets the box down in front of Wesker and he pokes at it with his newly cleaned gun. The box slides a few inches, bumping into a few bullets sprawled across the table. "What is it?"

"It's not a bomb." Claire swats at his hands and sits back down, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. It might not be a bomb but she still feels like it could blow up in her face. "Just open it."

Wesker sets his gun aside (but keeps it within reach) and pulls off his gloves, the leather stripping away to reveal pale flesh. He inspects the box, as Claire rolls her eyes, picking it up like he's checking for wiring, a timer or a trap. Eventually, he sets it back down and opens it up.

Claire holds her breath, watching carefully as Wesker reaches into the box and pulls out a cupcake. A bright yellow and green cupcake. "Happy birthday," she breathes out and it's a whisper, hardly a passage of words through her lips.

Wesker looks up at her, the ridiculous pastry engulfed by his large hands. "I was not born today," he states, setting the cupcake down on the table next to the gun. He looks confused, startled, slightly annoyed for just a few seconds and then shuts down, a wall slamming down on his emotions.

"Happy unbirthday then," Claire counters, her fingers reaching out, brushing against his, and she feels a surge of electricity run through her body.

He picks the cupcake up and sets it back into the box, green frosting rubbing off on his palm. "I don't understand what that means."

Claire accepts the box as he pushes it to her and she closes it, plans to throw it away when he's not looking. She never expected him to appreciate the gesture, to actually sit there and eat it even if it was only to please her. "I don't know when your birthday is so I decided it was today."

"That is a detail you don't need to know." Wesker turns back to his gun, gathering the wayward bullets and loading the chambers.

She grunts, her teeth grinding together against her will. She knew this would turn out this way, would have placed a bet on it and won a shit ton of money, but it still doesn't stop it from hurting. Her blood feels cold in her veins and suddenly her robe isn't keeping her warm enough. "I don't need to know? I bet you know everything about me."

Wesker looks at her for a moment, holding the gun tightly in his hands (she should be scared but she's not). His eyes are glowing, blistering into her. "I do not know everything about you."

"Bullshit," she spits out with more venom than she intended, more hurt in her voice than she wants him to hear. "I want to know this stuff about you. I want normal sometimes, Albert."

He pushes his chair back and stands, holstering the gun beneath his arm. He's dressed in black slacks, a white button down shirt, holster strapped across his back even though he just stepped out of the shower. "What is normal?"

"Marriage, kids, leaving the hotel room. Dinners, friends. How long are we going to hide here?" It sounds stupid as it leaves her mouth and she wishes she could take it back because now she is one of those girls and she wants to drown herself in the bathtub. Whining like this will only turn Wesker away. This isn't who she is but then again, none of this is really who she is.

Wesker leans over the table, brushes her too long bangs out of her eyes. "Normal is overrated." His hands linger in her hair for a moment, his fingers squeezing the moisture out of the carefully combed, still wet strands.

"Yeah," Claire says, looking everywhere except at the man in front of her. "I guess it is."

He kisses the top of her head (and she's reminded of Chris, the way he kisses her head like she's forever five years old) and runs a finger down the side of her face. "Come to bed." He walks away and leaves her at the table, small and lonely with a pastry box and gun oil.

Claire waits until he's in the other room, out of sight behind wood and sheetrock. She picks up the white box and it's heavy in her hands, heavier than it should be but it feels like a pile of rocks and reminds her of disappointment.

She stands, walking over to the trashcan in the corner of the room and looks down at the empty bag. It's a simple action, letting the box fall from her fingers but she holds on tightly for a minute, her breathing just a bit quicker than before, just a bit more shallow than it should be. She waits a moment, her nails digging into the cardboard, the sweet smell of sugar and oil mixing together in the air. Then she lets go.

Claire throws normal away.


	3. Shout

_Shout_

* * *

><p>Her fingers are digging into her palm, leaving small half-moon indentations in the pale skin. Her chest stills, her breath caught somewhere in her lungs, and her face is growing red, ridiculously red and she's sure almost perfectly matches the dress she's currently wearing. She doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say.<p>

"Perhaps you'd like some time to think about it." Wesker's eyes are glowing and they're as red as Claire's face, as red as her dress. Everything is tinted red and the world is spinning too fast on its axis. Claire's beginning to lose her footing, her place in reality. None of this is real anyway.

She's sitting at the table, the one they've spent so many hours sitting at. She's eaten endless meals here, cleaned her gun here. Now she stares at the object in front of her and wants to spit nails. "I don't need to think about it."

"It's for the best. Think about it." He's never done this before, never has tried to push what he is onto her. It was bound to happen one day. One day when the envelope would have to be pushed, when one of them would no longer be satisfied by living in a dream.

"I'm not thinking about it. Put it away." She reaches out, her fingers trembling, her pulse speeding so fast she's sure she's going to topple over from a coronary at any moment. The plastic is cool against her skin and she wonders what it would feel like, piercing into her flesh, making her what he is, making her his true equal.

Claire slides the needle over to him and pulls her hands away quickly, like she's been burned by this small piece of plastic and metal. "I said no. Don't bring it up again."

Wesker honors her request.


	4. The Poet and the Muse

_The Poet and the Muse_

* * *

><p>The watch on her wrist is expensive, a gift she received at some point over the years. She hardly keeps track of these sort of things anymore. A watch here, a pair of earrings there. A necklace, a bracelet. They all blur together and she keeps most of them hidden away, in the back of her closet at home, where nobody would expect to find her secrets.<p>

The watch is functional though, gold and expensive like everything else, but has a purpose. She keeps it on her wrist, a heavy reminder strapped to her bones. And now she watches as the time goes by, the second hand wrap around the minute hand and no matter how many presents she has, no matter what she has hidden and what she keeps close to her, she can't make time speed up or slow down.

She's been sitting here for hours, if the watch is working correctly. She almost wants to take it off and check the battery. Something isn't right. Wesker should have been here by now. They should be in bed or the shower or sitting together at the table, talking about nothing (because everything crosses so many boundaries).

He isn't here though, hasn't called, hasn't left a message, didn't send a carrier pigeon. They've been doing this for years and at some point, Claire lost track of just how long. It feels like forever on some days and no time at all on others. He always shows up though, no matter what. He shows up, his eyes hidden and hers impossibly opened.

She waits until the sun is breaking through the curtains, streams of dust filtering in, tickling at her allergies. Then she puts on her jeans, her most comfortable t-shirt and leaves, her expensive dress left stranded in the middle of the floor, forgotten and hardly used. He didn't show and Claire isn't sure if anything could hurt more (but she knows it's possible).


	5. Little Negative of Hopes Defined

_Little Negative of Hopes Defined_

* * *

><p>Claire thinks it's Saturday but she can't be sure.<p>

Her watch has stopped, the date permanently reading Thursday, the time stuck forever at nine forty-seven pm. She could check the calendar hanging on the wall in her kitchen, the one with Labrador Retrievers on it that she got at the mall for sixty percent off. She could look at her phone, but it died some time ago and she hasn't bothered to plug it in.

It has to be Saturday because there's movement behind the walls, the restless motion of her no name neighbors shuffling about, no work to go to, no errands to run. Their television is blasting, the radio broadcasting the weather report loud and clear through the thin sheetrock. Claire might not know what day it is but she knows there's a cold front moving in and she'll need her umbrella tonight.

She's sitting on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by piles of clothes she hasn't bothered to wash, wearing nothing but a white terrycloth towel she stole from the hotel. It's soft around her body, envelops her like a tight hug and she doesn't want to take it off just yet. Her hair is down, around her shoulders, damp and rapidly drying. She hasn't taken a comb to it yet, isn't even sure if she'll bother. She's clean, soft and supple like girls should be, even if she doesn't feel it yet.

There's a _Seinfeld_ repeat on, from what Claire can hear through the walls, and the weather report has been turned down in favor of celebrating Festivus. She reaches out, her hand shaking like an addict jonesing for a hit, and she has to stop for a minute, take a deep breath and count to fifty before she can push a pile of clothing aside.

She clears a small path of brown shag carpet lining the way to her closet, and it's like she parted the Red Sea, right there in her bedroom. She makes a mental note to do laundry later but she doubts she'll get to it.

Her fingers meet the cool wood of the closet door, smooth beneath her light touch, and she runs her hands over it like she's never seen it before. She hasn't opened these doors in a while but she needs to, needs it the way she needs air and water.

Feeling a small prick against her skin, Claire jerks her hand away, staring down at her palm and the ugly piece of wood now embedded in the center. There's a bead of blood surrounding the splinter like a pool of ruby water and it's a distorted oasis stranded in the desert of her palm.

She wipes her hand against her towel and for a moment she wonders how to get blood out of terrycloth. Hot water, her mother used to tell her. Hot water solved everything. And club soda. She doesn't own club soda and the store is all the way down the block. She definitely doesn't know where her umbrella is right now.

Claire reaches out again and this time she slides the doors open and scoots forward through the carpeted sea until her knees are lined up with the threshold of the closet, bare skin pressed against the small groove in the rug where the doors were set before.

Her closet is a wasteland of junk, just like the rest of her room is. She never used to live this way, isn't even sure how this happened. This isn't who she is. She's never been one to organize to an extreme degree. She doesn't line up her canned goods and arrange them by alphabetical order but she has never lived like this. It's not living and she can barely breathe in here.

George yells through the walls as she looks at the contents of the closet, a murmured high pitched whining vibrating in her ears. She'll have to complain about her neighbors later on (when she's getting the club soda, finding her umbrella, doing the laundry and plugging in her phone). She pushes the noise into the background of her mind and stares at the one section of her closet that doesn't look like a disaster area.

There's a jewelry box sitting on the floor, towards the back of the closet. She has to push a pair of shoes out of the way, a sweater she used to wear and can't think of a reason why she doesn't anymore, but otherwise the mahogany box is untouched by the tornado that has hit her apartment.

The box was a Christmas gift when she was a child. She used to store crap in here, stamps and miscellaneous things she picked up and didn't know what to do with. Now it holds everything she can't bring out into the daylight. Every gift she's received but doesn't wear and in some cases doesn't want to wear. Most of the stuff in the box isn't her. She isn't flashy, wouldn't fit in with a high society crowd, but that's not what this is about.

Claire pulls the box out and sets it in front of her, right into the middle of the brown carpet sea. She empties the box, pulls out every drawer and turns it over, spilling the contents onto the floor. Gold and silver sparkle up at her, rubies and diamonds glinting in the dim lighting of the room, shining into her eyes and she almost feels blinded for a moment. She already can't breathe.

She shifts through necklaces, each more different than the next, some with diamonds, some interlaced with gold and silver, some with foreign gemstones she can't name if she tried. There are bracelets and anklets and a broach or two that are going to be heirlooms someday, worth more than her life.

Something catches her eye amongst the sea of treasure, something that stands out from the rest of the jewels splayed across the floor. She shifts through the jewelry with her fingers, a small drop of blood running down her hand but she ignores the slick slide of moisture and plucks one of the necklaces from the pile.

Claire holds it up to the light and feels her chest tighten unnaturally. She hasn't seen this in too long, kept it hidden away like a bad memory and it's anything but. She's smearing blood against the white gold, red dripping down the chain, falling onto the ring attached to it. It looks like something dirty, tarnished, something snatched off the body of the dead but it's her everything.

Unclasping the chain, she slides the ring off and holds it in her hand, tilting it to read the inscription. _Eternally yours_, it reads and Claire feels her stomach drop out, her heart beating against her rib cage, asking to break through the bone, through the skin to fall onto the floor with the rest of the junk she's surrounded herself with. Eternally yours, yet she is alone and has been for months.

She slides the ring onto her finger and it fits like a glove, like a part of her body that's always missing, hidden away because she's ashamed and scared. It's heavy and weighs down on her, a brick crushing her hand but she doesn't mind, never has minded.

George is yelling again and it's a quiet symphony of sound, a backdrop as Claire stares at her hand. She can count the times she's worn the ring on her finger with one hand and she doubts she'll ever reach two. It feels like home.

She's lost in her thoughts, caught somewhere in a gaudy hotel room with a man who tears her down as much as builds her back up. She's lost in demon eyes and head to toe black, strong biceps and a sculpted chest. Claire's somewhere else and doesn't hear the doorbell, doesn't hear the constant shrill until it turns into blunt, loud banging.

Shaking her head, she returns to her apartment and leaves the hotel behind, pulling the ring off her finger and refastening it around the chain. The banging grows louder and she scoops the jewelry on the floor into her hands and shoves it all into the box, once again hiding her secrets in the back of her closet.

Claire takes the time to cover her tracks, grabs at the pile of clothes she set aside earlier and litters the path she made in the carpeting. When she's satisfied with her work, she scrambles to her feet, her fingers holding her towel together as she runs for the door.

"I'm coming," she mumbles, adjusting the towel and she hopes it's some random neighbor, someone she doesn't know who won't judge her for the way she currently looks.

She doesn't bother with the peephole, doesn't seem to remember that she isn't in the safest neighborhood and doesn't live the cookie cutter Stepford life. There are dangers lurking on the other side of the door, yet she yanks it open with reckless abandon, just to get the knocking to stop.

Leon is standing on the other side (and she's not sure she's happy to see him and not the living dead), a smile gracing his lips. He looks put together, like he always does, donning a thick leather jacket, dark jeans and an impossibly tight t-shirt. "Finally," he says and even though he's grinning Claire can tell he's serious.

Claire blocks the entrance to the apartment with her body, the towel around her loosening just a bit. She doesn't want Leon to see her mess. She isn't proud of the way she's been living. It's not her style at all. "Sorry. I just got out of the shower."

His eyes sweep up and down her body and she shivers, wishing she had actual clothes on. Leon's a good looking man, just not the one she wants. "I can see that."

"What are you doing here?" A hand flies to her hair and she tries to comb through her damp locks with her fingers. It's a last ditch effort to look presentable and she's failing terribly.

He's looking beyond her now, trying to see past the doorway into her secrets. "I've been trying to get a hold of you. You aren't answering your phone."

Claire paints a smile on her face, laughing softly and shrugging a shoulder like it's no big deal. "It died and I can't find the charger."

"I'll buy you another." Leon has a height advantage on her and Claire knows he can see more than she wants him to. She tries to hide her world from him but it's hard and she's tired. She closes her eyes when he asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she breathes out, kicking aside the useless heart lying dead at her feet. "I am." And it's a lie.


	6. See the World Hanging Upside Down

**See the World Hanging Upside Down**

_A/N: Okay, so here's the deal. I've been avoiding posting this for well, a really long time, for a couple of different reasons. The biggest is the fact that there are huge (I mean HUGE) plot holes that take place before this particular piece. I always meant to go back and write a fic that would fill the gap but I never got around to it. So I want to just finish posting what I've written to complete this series so I can move onto another Claire/Wesker idea I have floating around in my mind (time permitting, that is)._

_I know this probably seems incredibly lazy but I did warn at the very beginning that there were missing pieces and holes in the plot. All you really need to know is that between the last ficlet and this one, Wesker has returned and he's a bit more…human than he was before. No more red eyes, no more super strength, Wesker has nothing left of the life he had before._

_So, I'm sorry that I didn't write what has happened to Wesker. I had the best of intentions and in the end, this is about Claire and Albert's relationship, not the color of his eyes or his evil plans and how they went awry. Hopefully this will be okay! There is one more piece to follow after this one._

* * *

><p>Claire is not much of a wordsmith. She's never going to write an epic novel, a sappy poem or even a dirty limerick. Hell, she can't even write a note without her fingers cramping up and her mind working overtime to string a series of words together.<p>

It's just a note, written on a piece of flowered stationary she found in a drawer in the kitchen. Pink and yellow daisies frame the slightly crumpled paper and she colors them in with a black Bic, turning the bright pastels into dark, inexplicable blobs. The paper looks like a schoolgirl's bored doodlings instead of the goodbye it's supposed to be.

It's harder to say goodbye than Claire thought it would be. It's just a few words and yet she's stalling. She's tried to write it a couple of times but ended up scratching out each attempted start.

It doesn't really matter what the paper says, nothing could ever explain why she's doing what she's doing short of mental illness. She wants to try though, wants Chris to know she left under her own free will and not with a gun shoved up against her temple.

So she starts again.

_To my brother_

That sounds too proper.

_Dear Chris_

That sounds too much like a love letter.

_To Whom It May Concern_

That one sounds like an angry letter to an editor.

Shit. This is maybe the hardest thing she's ever had to do, harder than shooting the living dead, harder than sleeping with the enemy.

Claire's just wasting time. She still has a few things to do, a few more arrangements to make before she locks up and never comes back. She hasn't packed much, just shoved a few belongings into her pink backpack. A pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, a few pairs of underwear, a toothbrush, a hairbrush. There's nothing here she needs to take with her to the new life that is waiting for her.

The mahogany jewelry box that normally hides at the back of her closet is now sitting next to her on the desk, out in the open. She rifled through it earlier, ran her fingers over each piece of jewelry and carefully selected what she would take with her. She had the world to choose from, every fancy piece of gold and silver a girl could wish for.

She ended up taking her white gold ring, sliding it off the chain it's been on for years and slipped it onto her ring finger, where it belongs. It's the only piece she took. She doesn't need the rest.

Everything she needs to take with her is in her bag, sitting by the front door, waiting patiently for her. She has to tie a few loose odds and ends, has to make a few calls, turn off the water and the electric, call someone to box up the rest of her belongings and take them off to Goodwill. Someone else can use this stuff, someone else will call her apartment home before too much longer.

Claire takes a deep breath, steadies the pen in her hand (and the shine of her ring in the dim lighting of her room blinds her for just a moment) and stares at the paper. This is just another loose end to tie up.

In the end, she can't say goodbye, can't bring herself to write the words next to the black scratches, the blobs of ink that's left her hands smudged and the paper ruined. She turns the paper over, the fresh white staring at her, the black only faintly shining through from the other side. And she writes:

_See you later._

It's better than goodbye.

* * *

><p>The night air is ridiculously cold for the first week of September. It's freezing and Claire can see her breath, small puffs of air hanging in front of her face like delinquent clouds, expelled from the sky. The bitter wind whips at her bare shins and small goosebumps cover her exposed skin.<p>

Claire shivers, despite the black pea coat she's wearing, the gray wool dress underneath, and the cotton pink gloves covering her fingertips. She almost looks the part tonight, the part she's been playing for so long it's grown on her like a second skin, except for the white Nike sneakers on her feet and the pink backpack strapped across her shoulders. Her hair is messy, pulled back with a clip, and a few loose pieces lash at her face, striping her vision with vibrant auburn streaks.

She could have waited inside, with the heater on, sipping a cup of hot chocolate, but she couldn't sit still any longer. Patience is a virtue Claire never learned. She's standing outside of her apartment building, waiting for the rest of her life, and freezing her ass off.

Shoving her hands into her pockets, Claire rocks back onto her heels, the rubber soles of her shoes sliding against the cement sidewalk. She looks off into the distance, hoping to see the faint shine of headlights, the glint of hubcaps coming around the bend. The harder she looks, the more time she spends with her neck craned like an ostrich, the faster her heart begins to beat.

There are thoughts creeping up the sides of her brain, digging their way into the ridges of her mind, fighting their way into the frontal lobe. They nag at her like a housewife, begging for her undivided attention, and she shakes her head, trying to knock the thoughts loose.

He's coming. Claire knows he's coming. Wesker is a man of his word and it's only a matter of time before his car turns the corner and rolls up in front of her. She has blind faith in this man but that doesn't stop the lingering thoughts, the way her blood races through her veins, the way her chest hurts just a little bit like someone's ripped a hole into her ribcage with their fist.

Claire has torn her life apart for this moment. Going back inside, tearing up the note that took her an hour to write, to go back to the way things used to be, is not an option. The only way to move is forward, she can't turn back now. She wouldn't know how to live like that anymore.

Her mind is already on the road, out of this frozen mess she used to call home. The rest of her body just has to join it.

Something brushes against her shoulder and she turns her head, her hair thrashing against her cheek. She turns so fast, she thinks she has whiplash. Her hand instinctively reaches down between her legs only to find bare skin. There's no knife strapped to her thigh, no gun tucked up beneath her armpit. Claire is just a woman on a sidewalk, waiting for her life to begin.

Claire laughs as she sees Wesker standing next to her, his hand still gripping her shoulder tightly. "You scared me," she breathes out, smoothing her dress back down to cover up her legs. Old habits die hard, she hears.

"Nice outfit," Wesker says into her ear, so low she almost doesn't make it out, so quiet she has to strain to catch the words. There's no sarcasm hidden in his tone, no humor laced in with the words. And she's wearing sneakers with a dress. She doesn't get a chance to respond before he starts talking again.

"What are you doing out here?" He looks casual, a word Claire would never have associated with Wesker before, but he looks relaxed, he looks like a man whose had the world lifted from his shoulders for the first time in his life. He's dressed in a black leather jacket, some kind of blue button down shirt beneath it, and dark denim jeans.

Claire leans in, brushes her mouth against Wesker's. He tastes like mint and coffee. "Waiting for you."

Wesker brings up a gloved hand and brushes his leather clad knuckles against her flushed cheek. "Eager?" His lips curl up, just a little bit in the corner, and it's almost a smile. Almost.

"Maybe." She grins and whatever thoughts of doubt that had been rolling around her mind are blissfully gone. Her heart is still pounding against her chest, crashing so hard against muscle and bone that she hears the echo in her ears. "Let's get out of here."

He takes her hand, black leather meeting pink cotton, and leads her away from the past and into the unknown.

* * *

><p>A map of Pennsylvania is stretched out across Claire's thighs, Philadelphia resting against her right knee, Pittsburgh pressing against her left thigh. She's not sure where in the state they are, probably somewhere between the two cities. She doesn't really care where they are.<p>

Wesker is at the wheel, bare hands at ten and two, his ring shining like a diamond peaking out of the rough and small beams of light bounce off the gold to create a kaleidoscope of colors on the ceiling of the car. His eyes are hidden behind cheap, dark shades he picked up in a gas station in Ohio.

There's no holster beneath his arm, no gun in the glove compartment (Claire checked). His jacket has been tossed in the back seat, next to Claire's bag and a small black suitcase. The Beatles are playing softly in the background and Claire almost swears she sees his thumb tapping against the wheel.

The whole thing is so normal, so typical, that Claire wants to crawl inside this moment and never come out. She wants to dig her nails into time, stop it from moving, stop it from letting this fall to the wayside. Here, somewhere in Pennsylvania, Claire gathers the wood for her picket fence.

Wesker reaches out, his hand finding Pittsburgh, crinkling the city as his palm grips her thigh gently. "You have that look again."

Claire blinks, shaking her head. She doesn't know what look he's talking about, the one he's always pointing out to her. Whatever it is, she doesn't mind him seeing it. "Pull over," she says, her fingers ghosting over his, the strange warmth of his hand scorching her fingertips.

The hand on her knee tightens and the car is already slowing down. "Are you ill?" His eyes are off the road, focused only on her and it doesn't make her feel uncomfortable, scrutinized in a way it would have before.

The car eases to a stop on the shoulder, traffic racing by the windshield like a blink and you'll miss it flash of light. Wesker pulls the parking brake and then turns in his seat to face her, his hand still firmly planted in her lap.

It's the middle of the afternoon and the skies are gray here, wherever they are, but Wesker's hair still shines like there's a halo surrounding his head (and Lord knows there isn't). His lips are pressed tightly together, his jaw stiff like he's grinding on his teeth.

Claire reaches out, a little hesitant at first, her fingers barely grazing his stubbled chin before she rests her palm against his cheek. "I'm better than I've ever been." She leans in and kisses him, her tongue sweeping against his lip, ruining the firm line they'd been set into.

Her fingers wander up his face, bumping into the dark plastic covering his eyes. She pulls back, just for a moment, and removes the frames from his face. She's met with eyes splashed with water from the bluest oceans, saturated with air from the brightest sky, and Claire knows that this is what home feels like.

The map falls to the floor as Wesker pulls her back in. Pittsburgh ends up with a hole in the middle of the city, Harrisburg with a rip, and Philadelphia is missing all together. They don't need to know where they are anyway.

* * *

><p>As much as Claire loves a good road trip, she starts to get restless when they cross the New York state line. She finished her last crossword puzzle two hours ago, hasn't been able to find a suitable radio station in at least three. There's nothing to look at but miles and miles of farmland, nothing to distract her from the yellow and black constantly running past her eyes.<p>

Her bare feet are pressed against the dashboard, her toes tapping against the dark wood finish. Wesker places a hand on her knee and stops the antsy movement of her blush pink toes. His hand swallows her thigh and it's hard to see the denim underneath the large expanse of bone and flesh laying against her leg.

"Sorry," she mumbles and her hand finds her way to her mouth, hiding behind her curled fingers like she's a child. Her nails feel cool against her lips and for a moment, she's reminded of the way things used to be, the way kisses used to turn her into a block of ice and freeze her from head to toe. It's odd to think of it as a memory and not a constant.

He takes his hand from her thigh, and she feels the still strange sensation of warm fingers wrapping against her wrist, pulling her hand away from her mouth. "You seem restless. Do you want to pull over?"

She shrugs, looks at her wrist in his clutches. She wonders if he can still crush the tiny bones under his touch. "Sure. I need to stretch my legs."

They stop at the first rest area they can find, some small shack in the middle of the interstate that has a toilet, a vending machine and a picnic table. It's all they really need. Claire walks around, stretching the muscles out in her cramped legs, exploring anything that isn't the inside of the car.

There are families here, mothers taking their kids to the bathroom, fathers taking their dogs for walks. There are brothers and sisters running around, playing tag, yelling and screaming like the world is going to end if they don't win. There are couples, holding hands, sitting quietly at the picnic tables, feeding dollars into vending machines. It's a snapshot of Americana on vacation and for once, Claire feels like she belongs.

She stops by the vending machine and finds a dollar shoved into her back pocket. It's creased down the middle, wrinkled at the edges but she manages to get the machine to take the money and in return, she gets E5. The bag of chips is small, not worth the entire dollar she just lost in the transaction, and the smell of grease nearly knocks her sideways in a completely perfect way. Now she's recharged, refueled, ready to get back on the road.

Wesker is leaning up against the side of the car, his hip pressed against the handle, his back against the driver's side window. He looks good, like he belongs there, waiting for her. It's still cold, always so cold, but he's not wearing his coat, his fingers are bare and shoved into his pockets. He's probably freezing and the idea is hard to comprehend.

Claire walks up to him, her sneakers quietly thumping against the asphalt, her fingers oily, her lips rough with salt. "I'm ready when you are," she says, licking her index finger.

"Let's go then," he says, his hand shooting out and for just a moment, Claire thinks he's going to grab her, like maybe he forgot that she's here willingly, always has been here willingly. Instead, his fingers dig into the bag she's holding and he pops a chip into his mouth.

Working on impulse and rapidly firing neurons, Claire reaches out, fists her hands into his gray cotton t-shirt and pulls him to her. She catches him off guard for maybe the first time ever and as she crushes her mouth over his, tastes the grease and salt in his mouth, she knows that even though normal is overrated, she's managed to find a piece of it anyway.

* * *

><p>Claire doesn't often miss the hotel she hid away in once a month. The room was filled deception and blind eyes, occupied by two people who looked away and lied as easily as they told the truth. There is nothing to miss about shutting away a part of herself, playing a game that only ended up in pain.<p>

But considering the current room she's in and the way the dust hangs heavily on the hideously flowered drapes, the way the lumps in the mattress push at her back, throwing off the careful alignment of her vertebrae, she can't help but miss the luxury of three thousand count sheets and room service served on silver carts with roses scattered out beside her plate. At least the floors were made of hardwood there, not shag carpeting, and there were no stains that could be mistaken for blood or brain matter.

Wesker looks horribly out of place, like someone's playing a really awful joke on him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, a loud pattern of yellow and orange stripes under his thighs, his face blank like he's recreating the walls it's taken Claire years to break down. The television blares on in front of him but he doesn't seem to notice.

She takes a seat next to him and rests her hand on his denim clad thigh. Her hand looks small on his leg, like the sea of blue could rise up and swallow her whole and she'd have to live the rest of her life with one less limb. But she likes the way her fingers look resting against him, the way he doesn't tense or brush her away. It's another piece of fence, another plank that she nails into place.

This room is small, consists of nothing more than a bed, a small bathroom with a dirt encrusted toilet and table with one chair although there's space for four. The walls are an unfortunate shade of pink, coral, and the paint is faded, chipping away in the corners. The room is loud and obnoxious, straight out of a retirement home in Boca Raton transplanted to somewhere in rural New Jersey.

They probably could have gotten a better room, could have stayed on the road a little longer, but Claire was tired and antsy and money was a bit tighter than either of them had anticipated. Buying France might be out of the picture at the current moment. Assets must be hard to come by when you're supposed to be dead.

Claire, as alive as she's ever been, rests her head against Wesker's shoulder, her forehead pressed against the hard plane of his arm, her skin resting against cotton softer than the sheets on the bed. "Are you okay?" She doesn't like the look on his face, doesn't like the rigor of his spine, the way his jaw is clenched.

Wesker turns his head to her, the television throwing pale light onto his face. His eyes are a little darker today, don't seem as bright as they have been, and it's like the moon has been ripped out of the sky and deposited into his irises. He leans in and instead of an answer, he offers her a kiss, his lips soft against her chapped, wind kissed flesh.

"Is this what you wanted?" He asks instead, his lips ghosting against hers with each word and it almost feels like she's asking along with him.

This is everything Claire ever wanted and was afraid to ask for. There's no blood on their hands, no shadows stretched between them, no lies slipping easily off thick tongues. Here, there's just the two of them, the slick slide of skin on skin, warmth pressed up against warmth.

She offers no answer either, just slowly moves her hand up his thigh under her fingers are resting against his zipper, the metal cool under her touch. She pulls the zipper apart, tooth by tooth and mashes her lips against his.

He should know her answer anyway. It's obvious.

* * *

><p>Claire wakes up with her head pillowed against Wesker's chest, her hair fanned out against pale, once flawless skin that's now marked with angry, burnt tissue and slowly fading scars. Some of the marks are still healing, the flesh still in the process of knitting together, his body still trying to recalculate the sudden changes in his chemistry. These scars will fade over time, into silver strips of memories, and Claire can't believe that something so ugly can make her so happy.<p>

She's tangled up with him, legs and arms and torsos and it's hard to tell where she ends and he begins. If they could stay like this forever, Claire wouldn't have one complaint. She's comfortable, albeit a little cold. The comforter was kicked aside at some point during the night and now the yellow and orange mess is somewhere on the floor, covering up bad carpeting instead of two bodies.

Running her hand up his chest, Claire, fingers a gunshot wound in his shoulder, a scar that's pink, faded around the edges like a forgotten dream. She never thought she would see this but it's in front of her eyes, proof that all of this really is over. It's written in blood on his body, like a permanent testimonial.

There's a hitch in Wesker's rising and falling chest and Claire knows he's awake, watching her. His hand moves up to join hers, their fingers entwining, rings resting against each other, completing the set. "Did you sleep well?" His voice is rough, dry, and the sound sends shivers shooting down Claire's spine, straight into her toes.

She laughs, her breasts pressed up against his side, her ankles laced in with his. Half of her body is asleep, pins and needles shooting through her veins, telling her to move. She's pretty good at ignoring that kind of thing though. "Yeah. I guess I was exhausted."

"I can't imagine why," he responds, his free hand lost in her hair, twirling the strands between his fingers. The same hands that ended lives, that drove a wedge between them, now hold her gently, reassure her and make her feel safe. It's a strange twist of fate.

Claire tilts her chin up, catches a glimpse of his hooded eyes and the sight still takes her breath away. They're a bit darker today, like the midnight sky has fallen into his eyes, with sleep crusted into the corners. It's so different than the inferno that used to burn there. "Can we stay here today?"

Wesker nods, his fingers tightening around hers, metal pressed against metal and everything is right in the world. "If that is what you want." He presses a kiss into her hair and if she hadn't been looking up, hadn't been watching him like a hawk, she wouldn't have noticed at all.

"Yeah," she says and it comes out softer than she means, ends up slipping from her tongue like a secret she never meant to tell. "It is."

They spend the day in bed, wrapped up in each other like the world has stopped turning, the days have stopped changing. There is nothing but this moment, nothing that matters anyway.

* * *

><p>They drive until they hit the ocean and there's nowhere else to go. It feels like they've made it to the end of the world and are holding on with their toes, trying not to fall off the side.<p>

The town, whatever town this is, is deserted, looks like it has been for decades. The stores are boarded up, large planks nailed into place over doors and windows. The sidewalks are empty save for a random drunk. The boardwalk looks worn, like you'd get splinters from walking across it with bare feet. This town has seen better days and Claire thinks it's a shame that they weren't around to see it.

Wesker parks the car and they sit there quietly, watching the waves lap up onto the sand, washing away the shore little by little until one day they'll be nothing left. The silence is a bit uncomfortable because there are things that need to be said, plans that need to be discussed but neither of them say anything.

Finally, Claire turns to look at Wesker, opens her mouth to break the bubble that's settled over the car, but snaps her lips shut at the last second. His eyes are firmly set on the horizon, his face a carefully controlled blank. She can't tell what he's thinking and somehow she doesn't think a penny will buy his thoughts right now.

She waits a moment or two, waiting for him to turn and look at her, for him to say something. But when nothing happens, when the silence stretches across her body and starts to suffocate her, she gets out of the car and walks down to the beach where at least the sound of crashing waves can keep her company.

The sand is cold against her bare feet, nothing like the searing summertime she's used to feeling beneath her toes. The wind is stiff against her back and she wishes she had pulled her hair up, to keep it from lashing at her face. She thinks she'll have red marks on her skin later, where the locks have whipped her, punished her for something she's not quite clear on.

It's peaceful here though. It's just Claire, the ocean and a few seagulls lurking above her head. She can breathe out here, can feel the air saturating her lungs, the salt in the air crusting her blood vessels. There's no strain, no tension, and she feels warm despite the freezing weather.

She stands there, the gray clouds rolling through the sky, the sun hidden for the day, for what feels like forever. It's more like a few minutes but time seems to be standing still and there's no watch on her wrist telling her otherwise. There are a million thoughts running through her head, those annoying, niggling thoughts that dig into her brain, latch onto the gray matter and never let go. She tries to ignore them because her picket fence is under construction and it's too late to knock it down.

Somewhere behind her, over the roar of the waves and the squawking of the seagulls, Claire hears a car door slam. She feels her heart beat just a little slower and she hadn't been aware that she was nervous, that her blood was racing in the first place.

Wesker comes up next to her and drapes his heavy, leather coat across her shoulders. It warms her through and through, her bones heating quickly, her skin flushing like she's suddenly in an oven. It almost feels like summer now, even though her toes are still frozen.

They stand, side by side, not touching, not talking. Wesker towers over her like a giant and as the sun sets in the murky sky, their shadows merge in the sand until they lose themselves and become one person.

Eventually, the silence shatters. It has to, this can't go on forever. As dusk settles upon the horizon, Wesker clears his throat, his eyes everywhere but on hers. "Where to?"

Claire reaches down, her fingers poking out at the bottom of the jacket's sleeves, and takes his hand. His hand is cold compared to hers and this is what feels heart shatteringly normal even though it's anything but now.

"I hear France is nice this time of year," she says, her voice almost lost in the waves.

Wesker squeezes her hand, his eyes finally settling on hers and Claire wonders if her eyes look like his, a little off, a little sad. "We'll leave in the morning."

Claire nods and holds on tight.


	7. What you Believe in the Light

_**What you Believe in the Light**_

A/N's: I lied. There's still one small part left after this one so I'll post that up sometime soon.

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><p>There's something that makes Leon hesitate for just a second, something that keeps him from knocking on the door in front of him. He doesn't know what it is, doesn't know why he's standing here in the hallway with his fist raised, poised above the wood, two inches from striking down on it. It's just this tingling sensation at the back of his neck, a chill running up his spine, and it makes him stop, freezes him in place.<p>

Maybe it's a sixth sense and he knows something is here isn't quite right, something is wrong. Maybe he's just paranoid. Leon lives in the shadows, his hand always itching at his hip, fingers always tracing the top of his holster. He spends his time running through hell and hoping he'll make it out the other side without too many scratches.

It's no wonder that sometimes he just stops, that sometimes there's something wiggling around the back of his mind that nags at him until he listens to it.

_Dodge right_, it'll whisper.

_Run faster_, it'll demand.

It screams at him until Leon pays attention and somehow manages to hang on for just another day.

He shouldn't feel like this here though. This should be a safe place, a place without parasites and undead masses trying to kill him. This is where Claire lives and yet everything still feels wrong, that little thing in the back of his mind is wiggling around and he just can't ignore it.

Lowering his hand, Leon draws his gun, feeling every bit as ridiculous as he probably looks. The hallway is blissfully empty though and he's not forced to deal with looks for the neighbors, the sort of looks that leave people scurrying, fingers flying fast on cell phone keypads seeking out help. The last thing Leon really needs is a visit from the police because he's lurking in a hallway with a gun.

He presses his back against the wall next to the door and looks around the hall, his eyes catching on the chipped paint on the walls, the stained, green carpeting beneath his boots, but nothing out of the ordinary. He doesn't see anyone lurking (besides himself anyway), no one hiding in a dark corner with a weapon, no doors cracked open with eyes pressed against the wood. Everything seems fine, normal, and yet that damn voice is bellowing in his ears.

Reaching out, his raps his knuckles against Claire's door and waits, just waits. His heart is working overtime, the blood in his veins coursing rapidly throughout his body, maybe a little too rapidly. He needs for her to open up, needs to see her porcelain skin, her ocean eyes peeking out from behind the door. He needs to see that she's whole and okay. "Claire, it's Leon. Open up."

He gives her just another second, one more moment before he goes in. He could break down the door, kick it down like he's some sort of action hero. He could splinter the wood until the door gives in, but Leon's pretty sure Claire will give him the third degree for it. Instead, he uses the spare key Claire had given him some years before.

Claire's eyes had been rimmed in bright red when she pressed the key into his hand, her hair disheveled and flowing around her shoulders. He hadn't asked, knew that wasn't what she needed, just held her hand in his, the small piece of metal the only thing separating skin from skin.

_Just in case_, she had told him and she pressed the key so hard into his palm that he had tooth marks as red as her eyes in his skin for hours afterward.

Leon never thought he'd have to use it. Banging on Claire's door was usually enough to get her up and moving, enough to get her to answer the door and yell at him to knock it off. It's not working this time and he thinks this might be a _just in case _occasion.

He keeps his back pressed against the wall and swings the now unlocked door open. No one jumps out at him and no shots are fired in his direction. It's a good sign, even though every bone in Leon's body is itching with how wrong this feels.

Cautiously, he enters the apartment, his fingers tight around the gun like he's trying to hold onto a lifeline. "Claire? You here?" His voice echoes throughout the empty foyer, bouncing off bare walls and reverberating around his skull.

The apartment is stale, like the door hasn't been opened in a while and the air conditioning unit has been off. There's no air circulating, no faint smells of apple body lotion or strawberry shampoo. The apartment smells of abandonment and Leon holsters his gun. There's nobody here.

Everything is covered with a thin layer of dust, the kitchen counter, the coffee table, the television set. They're coated with neglect and time and Leon runs his fingers through the dust, rubs it between his fingers and tries to imagine Claire standing in front of him, scrunching her nose at him, tossing a rag in his face to clean with. She's not here though and the dust lingers on the furniture.

There are boxes everywhere, cardboard boxes filled with everything that should be in a drawer or a closet. Clothes, towels, stuffed animals, shoes. All packed away and neatly piled in one corner of the living room. Claire's entire life fits in ten boxes. Leon's would fit in three.

The electricity has been turned off and he pulls the beige curtains open, the ones that came with the apartment if Leon remembers correctly. Sunlight filters in through dirty, uncleaned windows and he watches the dust dance through the air, riding on sizzling beams of sunlight and then just hang in the air like it doesn't know where it's going, where it's supposed to land.

This place is empty, no longer feels like a home if it ever really was one to begin with. Leon feels a bit empty.

Leon's not sure what happened to Claire. There are no signs of a struggle, no signs of forced entry. There are no blood stains on the carpeting, no muddy footprints guiding his path. She wasn't kidnapped, wasn't forced out of her life by gunpoint. Claire is just gone.

Her cell phone is sitting on the coffee table, a silver hunk of plastic sticking out amongst the grime on the oak wood. It feels like an invasion of privacy, feels like he's crossing so many lines that he can't even see anymore. But he picks the phone up and powers it on.

There are eight missed calls (four from Leon, three from Jill, one from an unknown number) and three voice mails. He almost doesn't listen to the voice mail, almost puts the phone down in the clean outline on the otherwise dirt encrusted table. He's gone this far though, he might as well go all the way.

_Message 1 – Sunday, 12:39 pm _

The first message is just silence before the line cuts off suddenly. It's a hang up from the unknown number. Leon erases it without a second thought. Someone didn't care enough to leave a message.

The second message is familiar. Leon left it two weeks ago.

_Message 2 – Tuesday, 8:52 am_

_Claire, it's Leon. Did you forget to charge your phone again? Call me when you get this. I'm in town and I think you should take me to dinner._

The sound of his own voice grates on his nerves and he deletes the message. No point in keeping it when there's no one to listen to it.

The third message is a woman. She doesn't identify herself but it has to be Jill. He's never met her, never seen her except for random photographs in files and the odd newspaper clipping. He's seen her empty grave. She has a strong voice with a bit of an edge but underneath that, underneath the bravado that's probably all show, there's a sweetness and a heart.

_Message 3 – Thursday, 11:20 pm_

_Hey, just calling to check in. Haven't heard from you in a while. Call, okay?_

Leon erases the message and puts the phone back into the dust free outline. His fingerprints shine brightly on the top of the cover, a series of curves lines pressed into the cheap plastic. He thinks about wiping them off, hiding the evidence like he's used to doing, covering his ass so no one knows he was here, but there's no point. Claire isn't coming back, not for this phone, not for her clothes or towels or anything she boxed up.

There has to be a reason behind this. Some incredible explanation as to why Claire would leave and not tell anyone. She could be in some kind of trouble but running away doesn't solve problems, it only creates more. She could be on a mission, she could be turning over a new leaf and leaving this shit fest of a life behind. Maybe she wised up and did the one thing Leon can't do – move on.

He moves through her apartment, searching through every drawer, looking under every sink, rifling through every box, trying to solve the mystery. He's never been a good detective, has never been able to look at all the evidence and solve the crime. He's better at shooting and asking questions later. Just when he's about to give up, consider the case a lost cause, he hits the jackpot in her bedroom.

Leon's never been back here before, never has had the pleasure of watching Claire wake up in the now stripped full sized bed, never has seen her stretch her hands above her head and yawn softly in the faint morning light. He's never brought her breakfast here, never has sat beside her with a sheet draped over his lap and ran his fingers through her hair. His chest tightens, just a bit, and he ignores the feeling like he has for years.

The bedroom is painted a pale pink, a little girl color in a grown woman's bedroom. It strikes him as out of place, not a color he would associate with Claire. Maybe it was this way when she moved in, maybe she painted it like this on purpose, went to the hardware store with a swatch in her hands and requested that they match it. He itches to ask but she's not here with him and he's not sure he'll ever find out now.

There's a small desk in the corner, some beat up piece of furniture that he bets she found on a curb somewhere. There's no computer but there is a jewelry box and a piece of paper left laying beside it. The paper is worn, creased and marked up with black ink. There's one sentence written on it:

_See you later._

Leon stares at it, trying to make sense of the words. He doesn't get it, flips the paper over looking for the punchline of a really bad joke but all he finds is scribbles, sentences scratched out and flowers colored in with a nervous hand. The paper holds no answers.

He shoves it into his pocket, feels the crinkled paper rest against his thigh, the sharp edges poking through the thin denim and scratching his skin. He's not sure why he wants to keep it but his heart beats a little slower now that it's in his pocket, his blood slows just a bit in his veins. The paper feels a bit like false hope and he's willing to buy at the moment.

Leon almost passes over the jewelry box. It's probably empty, just like everything else in this apartment. Claire's never really understood accessorizing. She might own a necklace or two but nothing fancy and nothing she'd wear without being forced to, nothing she would buy for herself.

His fingers itch though and he opens one drawer, expecting to find nothing and managing to find everything. He can't see his own face but he knows his eyes have widened a bit and his jaw is slack, his mouth loose and unbelieving. The drawer is full, packed with gold and silver and gems of all kinds.

Leon doesn't know anything about jewelry. He's never bought any, never has had anyone to buy it for, but he can tell these pieces are expensive. These are things Claire could never buy on the limited amount of money she pulls in per month. He finds bracelets and necklaces, earrings and broaches and the amount of money in this jewelry box is more than Leon can possibly imagine.

He rubs at his eyes and tries to line everything up in his head. That little voice, the one that digs into his mind and doesn't let go until he stops and listens, is screaming at him, screaming so loud he wants to cover his ears and shake his head until he hears nothing but a quiet roar of blood rushing through his body.

Claire is gone. She left everything behind, even a treasure chest filled with enough money to purchase a small island in the Atlantic. The case is coming together, he's starting to be able to piece everything together. And he doesn't like what he sees and his chest now aches and he can't stop the feeling. He could be wrong though, this isn't the kind of person Claire is.

But he's never really known who Claire is. He sees her when he can, wines and dines her and lives on wrenching a smile from those sullen lips. He's survived the depths of hell with her and yet she's almost a stranger.

He back peddles out of the room, closes the door behind him like that will hide everything that he has seen. If he closes his eyes tight enough, he can almost pretend he never saw the pink walls, never opened that box and found every secret Claire has been hiding for all these years. But the note scratches at him, burns in his pocket, and he knows he can't forget.

Leon snatches her phone from the coffee table and flips it open, not caring about fingerprints or dust or privacy anymore. He flips through the address book until he finds the one name he's looking for.

He takes one deep breath, just one to steady his voice, to help him find his footing again. He sinks back into that shell he's perfected over the years, the one that can shoot people and not blink. The shell feels like home filled with false comforts.

Pressing the phone to his ear, his heart pounds uselessly against his rib cage. This probably isn't what Claire wants. In fact, he knows this isn't what Claire wants, but Leon's selfish and that ache in his chest, underneath all that muscle, squeezing his heart like a grenade pin, keeps him from hanging up.

"Chris? It's Kennedy, Leon Kennedy. There's something I think you should see."


	8. Shut your Eyes

_**Shut your Eyes**_

A/N: I lied again. There's another drabble after this one. Hopefully it won't take me forever to actually post up. Thanks to everyone who has read this!

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><p>There's a life in front of Claire and she reaches out, wiggles her fingertips, trying to get her small hands on something so goddamn big it encompasses her every thought. It's the sort of life she always dreamed about, when she was twelve and she didn't know that the world was a scary place and that blood stains never come out of jeans, regardless of what the tag says.<p>

Two and a half kids, a dog, a husband that goes to work for eight hours and comes home with flowers in his hands every night. That is the life dangled in front of Claire's face and if she just reaches a bit further, really puts her weight into it, maybe she can grab it. Maybe she can pick out china patterns and register for shit she'll never need at a department store so she can have four toasters, three crockpots and enough napkin holders that she can melt them down to make little silver bullets. Bullets she'll hide in her nightstand just in case.

It's useless though, no matter how hard she tries, how she stretches her body and wriggles her hands, she's never going to grab it. That life faded away years ago, when there was blood on her hands that wouldn't scrub off and a gun on her hip that hadn't been there before. Things changed; Claire changed. And that life, the one that everyone else gets to have, it isn't something she's allowed to have.

That doesn't stop her from trying though, from dreaming and wanting. And sometimes she wants it so much, can taste it in the back of her throat, she swears she's transparent, that he can see it in her eyes. He'll reach out, hold her face in his hands and kiss the tip of her nose.

He can't give her this life, this fucking life that was taken from her years before she fell into his bed, but Claire stays anyway. It's just a want, just a dream, and this thing, this love that eats her up and spits her back out, is a reality. She'll take this any day over four goddamn toasters.


	9. Though the Truth May Vary

**Though the Truth May Vary**

_A/N: This is the last thing I've written for this pairing within this particular universe. Not sure if I'll ever revisit it but it was fun while it lasted. This feels like a good place to leave it for now anyway. Title is from "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men_

_Thanks to everyone who has read and commented on this and the previous fic as well. I appreciate all the feedback._

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><p>It's late and she should be at home in bed, beneath the covers with a warm body tucked in around her. She should have gone home hours ago, before the sun bled into the horizon and left ugly, dark bruises hanging in the sky. He's expecting her to come home and yet here she is, sitting at a cafe with a cold cup of espresso pressed between her hands.<p>

The waiter keeps stopping by her table, giving her a look that crosses the language barrier. _Get out. Go home._ It's all in his eyes, the body language. She's overstayed her welcome here, is taking up precious space that someone else could have, a paying, tipping someone else. But she doesn't want to go yet, not home, not now. Not just yet.

There's a piece of paper in front of her, creased from having been in her pocket, stained from the coffee cup. There are dark pen marks on it, words scratched out so heavily the ink bled through. It's a familiar piece of paper and it's been in her hands before. She left it behind though; she left everything behind.

And now it's haunting her. She stares at the paper, runs her finger over the fresh ink at the bottom, the writing that isn't in her own hand. This is familiar too and even though she's only seen his hand writing a time or two, she could pick it out of a line-up.

It's a number, a phone number. That's it.

It's a way out, a promise that everything can be okay again. This is a way home but it's been so long since she's been there, she isn't sure she quite belongs anymore. Claire left home behind and now it's clawing at her, digging into her skin and leaving marks behind that she can't cover up anymore. She can't hide, no matter how hard she tries. He knows how the wheels turn in her head, he'll see right through her like she's made of thin glass.

Wesker won't say anything though. He'll run his hand down her arm, tangle their fingers together and look at her with those stupid eyes that aren't red anymore but the same sort of blue that the blanket on their bed is, the one he spreads her out and takes her apart on. He wouldn't stop her from going, wouldn't say a goddamn thing because this is not a story written in a book somewhere, a report you'd see on the news.

This is not a kidnapping; this is choice and Claire made hers long ago.

They can't go home but it's nice to have the option.


End file.
